Someone was mounting the steep cliff-path that led to Rufus's cottage--a
man, square-built and powerful, who carried a burden. The moon shone
dimly upon his progress through a veil of drifting cloud. He was
streaming with water at every step, but he moved as if his drenched
clothing were in no way a hindrance--steadily, strongly, with stubborn
fixity of purpose. The burden he carried hung limply in his arms, and
over his shoulder there drifted a heavy mass of wet, black hair.

He came at length on his firm, bare feet to the little gate that led to
the lonely cottage, and, without pausing, passed through. The cottage
door was ajar. He pushed it back and entered, closing it, even as he did
so, with a backward fling of the heel. Then, in the tiny living-room, by
the light of the lamp that shone in the window, he laid his burden down.

White and cold, she lay with closed eyes upon the little sofa,
motionless and beautiful as a statue recumbent upon a tomb, her drenched
draperies clinging about her. He stood for a second looking upon her;
then, still with the absolute steadiness of set purpose, he turned and
went into the inner room.

He came back with a blanket, and stooping, he lifted the limp form and,
with a certain deftness that seemed a part of his immovable resolution,
he wrapped it in the rough grey folds.

It was while he was doing this that a sudden sigh came from between the
parted lips, and the closed eyes flashed open.

They gazed upon him in bewilderment, but he continued his ministrations
with grim persistence and an almost bovine expression of countenance.